


Screenwriter's Blues

by Minim Calibre (minim_calibre)



Category: Harold and Kumar go to White Castle
Genre: Crack, Other, POV Second Person, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2006, recipient:ros_fod, sex with cars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minim_calibre/pseuds/Minim%20Calibre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Special thanks to SA and Northland for the rapid-fire beta feedback</p>
    </blockquote>





	Screenwriter's Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to SA and Northland for the rapid-fire beta feedback

You are Neil Patrick Harris, and you are high as a fucking Learjet.

Your skin tingles and itches, your heart is pounding in a German industrial dance beat produced exclusively for you, and you have been in this car forever, so it's time to cut the small talk and get right to the chase.

Bucket seats, man. Bucket seats. You slide your hand up the curve of the passenger side, slipping your fingers in the space between the body and the headrest and curving your fingers around the sleek, cool metal you find there. Oh yeah. That's more like it. Your free hand springs your dick from its denim jail. The leather upholstery under your tongue still tastes factory new.

You are Neil Patrick Harris, and you've just gone from zero to money shot in six seconds.

You needed that. It cleared your head.

As you lean back, you notice something glittering, shining like the disco ball of Holy Grails under the sodium lights of the parking lot. Keys. They left the keys. You look up, look out, look into the window. Harry and Ku-something are still in the mini-mart where they've been for what feels like half a fucking century. Arguing. "Lovers spat. Ooooh yeah," you hear yourself say. Man, there is nothing you like better, unless it's pussy or penis or a mid-sized late-model import sedan. Any other time, you'd stick around to watch, but you are Neil Patrick Harris, and your mission, should you choose to accept it, will self-destruct as soon as they walk out those doors.

Slide out. Night air cold on your hot skin. You can feel your nipples harden. Dick, too.

Slide in. Bucket seat feels just as good from the front as it does from the back, sending electric shocks of arousal straight to your fucking blue balls. Steel yourself: no time for that now. Come on, NPH. Focus. That's it. Close your hand around the keys and turn.

Throw her into reverse.

Step on the gas.

Get gone.

Hairball and Fubar come out the door just seconds too late. You give a wave as they shrink out of the rearview, out of your mind.

You and the Camry have a talk. You realize you don't even know her name.

"Fritz," he tells you.

His name. Fritz. You like it. It's strong. Sexy.

"That make a difference?" he asks.

You listen to the purr of his engine, slide your hand across the leather. "No." Rake your fingernails around the edge of the steering wheel, the pulse of the engine vibrating through your fingertips and straight on down to the sweet spot. "No difference at all." You turn on the radio, hit all the presets until you find something that doesn't make you want to take out the artist with your bare hands and feast on their corpse. "Come on, Fritz. Let's find us some poontang."

* * *

You are Neil Patrick Harris, and you are going 80 miles an hour down a Jersey highway, the wind in your hair and Ben Franklin curled into a helpful tube at your nostril as you do lines off the perfectly waxed surface of a stripper's ass. The powder burns your mucous membranes, and you remember that in two weeks, you'll be the special guest star of a D.A.R.E. lecture at Nathan Hale Elementary School, BFE. Slipping Ben beneath her thong, you bite back a giggle, taking in a deep breath of crisp night air and soft warm girl. The stripper smells of sex and baby oil. All the good ones smell like that.

The world is your oyster, swallowed whole and raw and leaving you a throbbing god of cock. You hope the man who invented the Brazilian gets a Nobel Prize.

You wonder why Toyota never mentions in their ad copy that the Camry can hold at least a half-dozen quality exotic dancers.

"Word of mouth has a certain panache," Fritz explains.

And you both start to laugh.

The laugh of a Toyota Camry going 20 over the speed limit sounds like an engine choking. It would scare you, but you are Neil Patrick Harris, and you've learned to trust this car.

You wonder who's driving. Not Candee, or Mistie, or Ruth. They're in the back seat making lap dances look like something straight out of Ozzie and Harriet. And you barely need to touch yourself before you're coming contrails off the back of the car. Ducking back through the moonroof, you're a one man bukkake machine. Fritz cranks the music, you do the dance.

As the sun comes up, you're coming down. You drop off Sherry and Candee and Mistee and Ruth and Sam, and that one with the highlights whose name you never did catch. It's just you and Fritz now; you're the best kind of exhausted, but you still manage to rub up against those bucket seats one more time, for luck.

It is five a.m., and you are fucking starving. "Fritz," you murmur, your lips toying with the edge of the headrest again, "I'm fucking starving. Let's get us some food."

White Castle.

Harold and Kumar were looking for a White Castle.

Suddenly, you know what you want, what you've always wanted. Your mouth waters. You can taste the onions already.

Fritz rolls his eyes. Suggests that Shell or Union 76 would be more his speed. You take the hint, and Fritz eats first. "Super Premium," you say as wait for the grease monkey to fill 'er up. "Just what the doctor ordered."

He's more than happy to take you to White Castle after that. You order your burgers and sit down. Through the restaurant window, you spy Harold and Kumar. You're not at all surprised. Other people may believe in coincidence, but you are Neil Patrick Harris, and the world reshapes itself around you.

Your cell phone rings. Number unknown. You take the call. "Think they'll ever realize that they were made for each other?" It's Fritz. He sounds... sad. You never knew he was such a romantic.

Kumar leans in to catch something Harold is saying, neither of them showing any awareness of a personal bubble as they walk through the door. Magic 8 Ball says yes: body language doesn't lie. "Give it time, my man. Give it time," as you flip shut the phone.

As you pay for their burgers and the use of the car, you think that by time, you mean a week, tops. But you've been wrong before. Once. It could be as much as two weeks.

You swing by and say goodbye to Fritz as you leave the White Castle on your way to parts unknown. "Thanks," you say, and slap him on the trunk. You think he'll remember you fondly.

Then you hit the road and don't look back, because you are Neil Patrick Harris, and this is your life.


End file.
